


A Grave Escape

by saltcirclesam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Early in Canon, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Supernatural - Freeform, Young Dean, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 09:46:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3687603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltcirclesam/pseuds/saltcirclesam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This was his fifth try and he couldn't have hated himself more.  The first time, okay, he could cut himself some slack.  Nobody was perfect on their first try.  The fourth try, though?<br/>That wasn't okay.<br/>This was the fifth time Dean was climbing back down, and the sun was falling with him."</p><p>A young Dean Winchester is taught a valuable lesson the hard way-- how to dig his way out of a grave.  Being buried alive was never part of the plan but hey, shit happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Grave Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my IG account; @daddyissuedean. There are probably a couple spelling/grammar mistakes, sorry about that. John Winchester is a dick in this, also, so if that ain't your thing don't read on.

This was his fifth try and he couldn't have hated himself more. The first time, okay, he could cut himself some slack. Nobody was perfect on their first try. The fourth try, though?  
That wasn't okay.  
This was the fifth time Dean was climbing back down, and the sun was falling with him.  
It wasn't okay because John was obviously disappointed and more than a little fed up; Dean could tell by the brooding expression on his face and the clench of his jaw.  
Could tell.  
Now, well, Dean couldn't see a thing and he wasn't sure if he should be thankful for that or not.  
He was at least a little better at the task now that he'd sobbed all the tears there were inside him and yelled until his throat was raw. That didn't change anything other than the fact that he hated himself that much more and was just that much more exhausted; the ache in his muscles almost unbearable.  
He didn't bother begging to be let out this time, he didn't bother screaming or letting tears stream heavily over dirt-covered cheeks. He was only answered with the 'we're not leaving until you get yourself out, Dean' or the 'don't be such a pussy about it, calm down, think about the situation and get yourself out of it'.  
Apparently, he would be thanking his father for this lesson later. He hoped he wouldn't have to.  
And here he was now, fifth attempt and drowning in the darkness.  
First step, he thought. Don't panic. He couldn't use up the oxygen again, not like he had on his third try. It took every inch of self control to gain power over his breathing and his pounding heart. How could he force relaxation like this?  
Two minutes. Calm. Well, calmer.  
Well, he learned the second time that dirt would be a problem. Inhaling that shit was gross and it only made his sobbing worse, which had been completely embarrassing.  
The young, freckled Winchester managed to wriggle out of his sweat-soaked shirt almost all the way (which smelled of body odor and earth– not exactly a great combo) so that it was inside out over his head; still attached to his body by his neck.  
He felt the panic in his chest, but forced it aside this time. John wouldn't let him die, he knew that, so why was he so terrified?  
Blindly, he reached above him and tied the bottom of the shirt together tightly; creating somewhat of a bag around his head to prevent from getting dirt on his face or inhaling any of the particles.  
Now for the great escape.  
Kicking. He knew the weakest point was somewhere in the middle, but he didn't have much room to move around so he would have to kick through with his knees rather than his feet.  
He already had bruises.  
Ten minutes, and finally there was the 'crack!' he had been waiting to hear; forcing a shaky whimper to leave his lips.  
Final stretch. Just keep breaking it, just a little more.  
Calm. Stay calm.  
He began to feel the moist earth falling in around him, the teen quickly pushing it to the sides as it fell in.  
Twenty minutes.  
The position he was in left him cramped and uncomfortable, muscles burning and mouth dry. He wanted to pass out, but that wasn't an option.  
The little space he had around him was soon filling and more quickly than he'd anticipated; but when he could barely fill the scarce room that he had around him anymore, he knew it was time.  
Thirty eight minutes.  
With his arms stretched above him, he used all the strength he could muster to push himself through the sharp opening he had made; could feel the splintered wood scraping deeply into his skin as he projected himself upwards.  
He was gasping again, groaning and choking on the lump that was caught in his throat.  
His hands broke the surface, arms, elbows, push, push, push, and his head was above.  
The air was cold. He was clammy. He was using every last bit of energy to wriggle himself out of the dirt that pressed in against his body and threatened to suffocate him.  
Forty nine minutes after being buried once again, as Dean tore the shirt off his head and gulped in gallon after gallon of cold, autumn air, tears once again streaming down his face, he heard his father's voice.  
"You'll thank me for this one day." He had muttered, passing his son a bottle of water.  
It had been the first time he clawed his way out of a grave.  
Years after his father's death and a time after his own; the statement proved to be true.  
Dean Winchester was saved.


End file.
